Silver Lining
by Meduse
Summary: Nobility is not all about privilege, heroism and honor. It comes with prejudice, occasional callousness and selfish ambitions, but most of all sacrifice. The eve before the Landsmeet, Lady Cousland reflects where her duty lies. And finds herself troubled.


_**Silver Lining**_

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: I own nothing related to the Dragon Age Universe in any way.<strong>_  
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_A/N: Hello there, Dragon Age world. Never written fanfiction for DA before (and DAO ff at that, does anyone still read this?), but I have two grand loves in this franchise: The Cousland origin and the situation of city elves in general. This is me adressing the first, especially how jarring the matter of duty and foreswearing duty must be for a noble. And because I do love strong women who are not automatically a tomboy with a dislike for etiquette, this is also somewhat exploring what being a noble rogue, a bard and a ranger means. Because I can get Duncan having heard a great deal about the amazing abilities of a warrior, but, seeing that cunning is their most important attribute, I thought a rogue's reputation must have been earned in a different way._

_Also, yes there is dialogue. No it doesn't come right away. Sorry. :)  
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><p>She used to have a different dress for every grand occasion of the year.<p>

Modest. Exquisite. Ornate. Light.

Just like this one.

Cool, silken fabric slipped through her calloused fingers. An estranged, but never _foreign_ feeling. Never distant enough to forget.

Someone had brought it here as an afterthought, a hollow offering of courtesy, if nothing else. There had been a time when tailors of an entire teyrnir had almost torn each other apart to try and bury her in their exquisite creations. Today but one maid had hesitantly wondered if 'Milady' would prefer to change into something more 'comfortable'.

The offer had come as a surprise to the rest of her company. They had never seen her in anything other than armor or the shapeless, practical linen clothing she wore beneath and perhaps they had never considered her donning anything else, too. Whereas Morrigan had retained her savage beauty, adorned with precious jewelry, and Leliana, oozing of elegance, never sparked any doubt concerning her appreciation for fine clothing, she had not expressed her femininity outwardly other than by painting her eyes – humorously referred to as war-paint amongst her companions -with bluish violet make up she had bought in a moment of utter weakness.

She had not found the suggestion quite so much out of place as they. Yet, when she had agreed it had passed between them immediately- the tacit understanding that she acted out of tact and would not actually glance at the dress twice. They hadn't forgotten that she was female, but somewhere along the way they had forgotten that she had feminine tastes. And why wouldn't they? Vanity was of little importance to Grey Wardens.

Vigilance. Victory. Sacrifice.

She drew the waves of cloth close enough to bury her face in them, taking in the lingering scent of Orlesian perfume. Silver threads shimmered softly in faint gleams of moonlight falling through her window. Different shades of blue caught her eye. Cerulean, sapphire, night blue, aquamarine, marine, a hint of turquoise. She hadn't forgotten the distinctions.

In the dark of her room she sighed.

Tomorrow the entirety of Ferelden's nobility would hear her for the first time in her life and she would stand before them in her leathers. Her weathered, scratched leathers deeply soaked with darkspawn taint, human blood and just about everything else.

Like a warrior, her brother would have said.

Like a barbarian, _she_ would've said right back.

The words were gone now. Her gaze wandered through the darkspawn filled shadows of her chamber, finding no place to rest. This was all wrong.

She had supposed it would feel like coming home to walk amongst nobles again. That it would give her a sense of familiarity, comfort, security. Finally.

It didn't.

She had loved the game of power before Howe happened. Diplomacy, etiquette, subtlety. Manipulation. She had loved it all.

Part of her even loved it still. But it was different now.

Her freedom was gone.

As the second-born child to one of the most powerful men in the entire kingdom, she had never been intended for leadership. She had not been _without_ purpose, certainly not, but it had been a purpose with delay. Second-borns guaranteed a continued legacy when tragedy befell the heir, were valuable assets in diplomatic negotiations and instrumental to forming alliances. The latter especially if female.

Her parents had placed no pressure on her in terms of marriage, due to rather unique circumstances. With Prince Cailan betrothed to Lady Anora since childhood, there had been no nobleman of equal or higher birth than her in Ferelden. Any honors exchanged due to her marriage would have been honors given, none received. Foreign relations that would have required her to leave her home would have been even trickier. For one, Orlais still watched the political connections of its lost province jealously and Ferelden generally took to prefer inland unions, having gained its independence not too long ago. Furthermore, in the worst case scenario that Fergus was to perish, Highever would have either been in foreign hand – unthinkable- or the Cousland line would have been replaced forcibly. Oren's birth, though a great joy to her family, had not changed much about this, at least not for a decade to come – it was not uncommon for children to die young. Taking this into consideration, Teyrn and Teyrna had asserted that her personal affection and preferences should not be ignored, when her only option was marriage below her station.

Despite her liberty in this respect, she had grown up as conscious of political mechanisms as any member of nobility did – or at least should- and had found that they intrigued her. Whenever she had seen fit to escape her Old Nan's watch, she had roamed through Highever's extensive political library, poring over the long list of fascinating stories of her ancestors and delighting in it. Treading in the shadow of Highever's ancient halls, hoarding and trading secrets about the personal life of guards and servants, she had made belief of being a great political diplomat herself, with time establishing a personal network of information in its own right. She had traded colorful glass beads for overheard conversations, sweets or wooden toys for written communication and a bracelet, an earring or a pocketknife for particularly embarrassing secrets. The business had run nicely. At times, Fergus, envious of all the treasures his little sister collected and wouldn't share with him, had tattled on her. But being a thin, meager child, born in a year of spoilt harvest, she had concealed herself easily, when Nan, her parents or furious guards tried to catch her and end her little schemes.

What had been play at first, soon had earned her the title as the cunning sibling of the two Cousland children and she'd enjoyed the thrill of outsmarting everyone else, especially Old Nan with her no-nonsense attitude or Aldous who never realized that she'd always been one step ahead of his lessons. There had been little to lose and no repercussions to mourn. She had never taken the blame for the trouble she stirred up with her playmates, because she had never been the leading figure in any of her exploits. Responsibility had struck her as an inconvenient, hindering burden, even when she had been very young and she had been content to watch others carry out the ideas she had implanted in them. One carefully prepared phrase, one precise knock on another's ego, a mysterious, conveniently placed object and she had had all the reward, none of the consequences. Fergus and the Howes had cursed her name many a day.

It had been a carefree, but sheltered childhood behind the walls of her castle and it had not prepared her in the slightest for the common man's world she was to discover as Arl Howe's betrayal threw her headfirst into it. Social contacts had consisted solely of other nobles, knights, guards and servants - each of them painfully aware of rank and status. Her only playmates beside her brother had been other nobles' children, primarily the three Howes, for she had felt no desire to roll around in the mud or dash through the straw with stable boys or kitchen staff. She _had_ watched the men, women and children of Highever from afar, but had never actually considered them being there. Highever and Ferelden, which she loved with the same simple ferocity her parents had, had worn a different face for her. When others typically associated brown landscapes, a simple man's life of hard, honest work and the smell of dogs, she had associated sturdy castles, women in fine, modest gowns, grand legends of heroism and miraculous myths of old. _Nobility_ had been her entire world. She had never known any other and it had given her contentment.

Sometimes, in those rare, quiet moments she wondered what the dead would think of her if they saw her 'fighting' the blight. Not her parents, Oriana or Oren. It hurt too much to think of them. The simple folk of Highever Castle. Those who had tended on her every whim and had rarely received a kind word in response due to her indifference. If they saw their very own Lady Cousland crawl on her knees through the Deep Roads, singe her hair in an emissary's conjured fire, drench herself in darkspawn blood and abomination gore, what would they say? If they saw her gorge herself on meager, tasteless food in a rush, sometimes even if it was bloody and moving? Smuggling, stealing, playing burglar all for the sake of survival?

Would they be horrified or morbidly amused at 'how the mighty had fallen'?

There were the days when she suspected it was the latter.

Of course she had not been allowed to be a helpless, complacent noble maiden and she had not eaten sugared sweet rolls from golden platters all day. In Ferelden it was deemed unbecoming for a teyrn's daughter to remain a stranger to the arts of war and so she too had had to choose a weapon to master when she had been old enough to learn. Hiding behind walls and pleasantries was a form of cowardice largely attributed to Orlesian decadence.

Eleanor Cousland had lived and died a fierce battle-maiden, never staying behind the front lines of a fight as she fought alongside her husband with as much fervor as he. She would not have fumbled with her duty and abilities, as the youngest living Cousland had. If anything, the teyrna would have taken on the Blight by sheer force of personality _and_ coerced Morrigan to dress properly in no time. But her daughter was decidedly not a warrior and she had never intended to be one. Too lithe, too fragile to support the crushing weight of heavy and massive armor, she had picked up the bow without hesitation and never taken another glance at blades or axes. Naturally, Fergus had made a humorous crack at how fitting it was that she should leave it to him to live up to the Couslands' tradition of formidable warriors and relax on the sidelines. Naturally she had slipped a precious surprise, brewed with love, into his dinner meal that evening, causing him to embarrass himself terribly in front of Bann Loren and his wife, their honored guests.

Archery embodied grace, precision and a deadly strike in the moment least expected. Everything she'd pictured herself to be when she would reach maturity.

But perhaps, she reflected now, Fergus had hit closer to home than either of them had realized at the time. She had always instinctively stepped onto the sidelines for him. Ever since she was old enough to care it had been crystal clear to her that her brother would inherit the title 'Teyrn of Highever' and she hadn't envied him for it, because it had made sense.

It was impossible to dislike Fergus, from the lowest street urchin to the knight in highest rank, and even though he had had his moments when he was downright annoying, she always had had confidence in his abilities as a leader. He never shirked duties the way she did, even when he complained about them. He was honest about virtually everything, a solid fighter, a fair judge. When he had married Oriana from Antiva, a woman he had barely known then, he'd managed to establish a loving, supportive relationship right off the bat.

_She, _on the other hand, had never figured out how to be so… approachable. It wasn't that she had been tactless per se, or unnecessarily rude. She had known her way through social gatherings perfectly well, with grace and eloquence, pleasing any audience if she wished to do so, because she had known how those things _worked_. Those 'friendships' of hers had never extended beyond a public acquaintance, though, and when spoken to in private, most people had found her unsettling.

It had been inevitable, truly, that she would notice how privileged and independent she was compared to other women. And _notice_ she had to its fullest. Old Nan had done her best to put her in her place, oftentimes, but to little avail. Self-assurance bordering on arrogance had seeped into her voice when she was young – who in this castle was to challenge her wit?- and had bloomed into her characteristic, condescending type of humor as she had grown older. A biting, sharp sarcasm that had ingrained itself deeply into her personality and had earned her the reputation of being a 'spitfire' in unguarded moments. She hadn't been able to let go of it once it had been there- and consequently, although she did not necessarily mean to hurt, would more often than not slight people just because. The well-trained bearing and calculation never wavered when needed; she had never slipped up when it counted, but when Fergus had bonded with others, she had retreated.

People had answered to her call and they had respected her, but they had not loved her.

So yes. Sometimes she _had_ envied Fergus. Sometimes, she had willingly stood back, because she had found herself falling short next to him.

She didn't have that option now. Fergus was out of her reach, possibly forever, and the brave men and women resting in the rooms of Arl Eamon's estate at this very moment all relied on her. Good people who would die, if she stood back.

It was a frightening thought. Running towards a conflict had never been her way. She had enjoyed freedom, _her_ freedom, to be in control of all she did, never staying long enough to suffer the aftermath of action.

Her training had served to enhance her flighty tendencies. A hunter didn't take more than he required, a ranger advanced silently without leaving a trace. She had not needed to depend on anyone else, just her own senses and mind. Working her way through Highever's woods, she had learnt to read the smallest of signs, listen for the quietest of sounds and even tame savage beasts. It had endowed her with a keen eye and sharp observation skills, a sense for calculated risk and retreat, not physical prowess or the concept of a fair, honorable fight. Her appreciation for beauty and elegance had grown together with her sense for detail, mimics, gestures, words unspoken had gained new meaning. She had come to know how to see through a Bann's boastful act when he spoke to her father, had known how to spot a loop in another's defense when conflict arose, had felt, just where to push people in order to get her way, often leaving an adolescent Gilmore to jest that she was a fearsome force of nature. He'd been forced into the role of an ally in her ploys often enough after her brother had grown out of it, for she had known Gilmore would not refuse her biddings, fearful as he might have been not to lose his standing in the castle's court.

Guilt weighed on her heart as she thought of the young knight now. The sight of a dead Ser Gilmore, broken and crippled by torture, lying on a cart in Fort Drakon still haunted her. He had sacrificed himself for her and her mother's sakes, so bound to his duty that it had killed him in the end. Although she had never been particularly nice to him, ordering him about like a servant long after he'd acquired his knighthood. She may not have been the spoilt, shrill harpy that Arl Bryland's daughter Habren was, but she regretted every harsh word and every single time that she had underestimated him so terribly. It was too late to apologize now.

He never even had had the chance to prove his worth to the Grey Wardens. She was living his dream now and loathing it. What kind of person did that make her?

Who was she now, anyhow?

She did not know the answer, but she _did_ know that if anything, she had become a stranger to the world.

Over the past week she had met several nobles who used to visit Highever in Denerim, all of them following the call for a Landsmeet. Only a small handful had recognized her, even less had addressed her. It had been more devastating than it should have been. While she had traveled Ferelden for the treaties, it had been easy to pretend that all this was just a passing phase, that she would retain who she was, that she _could_ return unaltered. To have the truth thrown so obviously into her face had been….difficult.

Being shunned, she could have taken into her stride with ease. But not to be considered of importance? Not to be _recognized_ at all?

It was a tell-tale how much her appearance must have changed. She had been beautiful as a teyrn's daughter and she had known it, too. Fine features, long, smooth hair and delicate limbs had recommended her and just like any beautiful young girl, she _had_ been vain.

It made her sick when people would still comment on her appearance now, dripping with dirt and blood, battle-hardened in every sense as she had become. She _had_ known beauty and this was not it.

That she should mourn its loss so much was shameful enough.

Not all of it was plain vanity, though. Public presentation was an extension of well-crafted words and it was speech that would win the Arls' and Banns' unified support, where weapons and war had failed. It felt deeply disturbing to enter the Landsmeet Hall like this. Her companions would say that it did not matter, since she was to mobilize Ferelden against the Blight, not to socialize, and they were right of course, but they did not realize – and they never were to realize- how much she had hoped, how much she had _yearned_…

At least she knew how to speak.

The faintest of smiles tugged at her lips as she recalled Leliana's surprise when they had begun training the finer arts of a bard's work. Considering that the younger Cousland most often than not opened her mouth to belittle others with 'questionable wit' (as her company had dubbed it, even Alistair, the shameless hypocrite), the other woman certainly hadn't expect her to weave a short, enchanting tale with quite so much ease. A silly, cheery little thing, not worth repetition, but it had done the trick.

It had been thanks to her that minstrels in Ferelden had preferred the Couslands of Highever to any other employ. The fact that she and Oren had been their sole audience most of the time, had been of little consequence. She had watched them for hours on end, no less fascinated than her little nephew beside her, just listening to their stories. Always analyzing their manner subconsciously. Memorizing.

It was doubtful that she could bewitch Loghain into submission with a fanciful tale, but it was the mechanism of manipulation behind any minstrels' work that truly mattered and she had studied it well. Powerful words were mesmerizing and deadly at once, a tool not to be underestimated.

She had had the finest teacher to realize that.

Her first public appearance as an invited guest had been at a ceremonial dinner in Fort Drakon celebrating the newly wed royal couple. A request for young Lady Cousland herself, not just her parents' drag-along and oh, how proud she had been that day. Perhaps she had even worn a blue silken dress just like the one between her fingers now. The palace had been mystical. She had soaked up the sights and sounds around her with wide eyes, excited and intrigued. When the royal couple had raised their voices to speak, she had been enraptured.

There could not have been a greater difference between the king's bewitching charm and the queen's coolly calculated words, laced with double-meaning and subtlety as they addressed their honored guests. Yet they had both equally woven their spell over the crowd without telling a single lie, telling truths that were lies and lies that were truths instead. She had understood then. This was power. This was _nobility_.

The crawling shadows closed in on her, suffocating her. Shivering, she drew in a shaky breath.

Cailan had been her king and his death - the wound of her failure as a Cousland, the kingdom's most ferocious servants- was still weighing on her somewhere beyond her darkspawn addled reality. But Anora's brilliance had been her _inspiration_.

A never quite healed scar from her treatment in Fort Drakon glared hideously through the fine silver-threaded cloth.

Who would have expected that _Anora_ should lose her rule to weakness.

She had admired the poise, the unpretentious elegance, the cool clarity that defined the Queen's character. The way she pulled the strings behind her husband's rule with little regard for propriety when Ferelden was threatened. Unpredictable yet firm. Remarkable, especially if one considered that Lady Anora was technically a commoner. There had been idle days – as embarrassing to admit to now as they had been embarrassing then – where she had tried to imitate Anora's manner in front of her mirror, days when she had tried to speak as composed as her, walk like her. One eagle's cry, one humorous remark by her brother, one nervous inquiry by Gilmore, though, and her charade had crumbled, snapping her back into her hopelessly snippy self. Sometimes she had even felt inadequate. She had not been able – not even in make-belief- to rid herself of the simple ideals of right and wrong she had been raised with, no matter how she praised herself for thinking outside the box . The Queen's clear sight for the necessary, not the honorable had been a sign of incredible, unobtainable strength to her.

Her _father's_ notion of nobility, on the other hand, had struck her too simple, void and without finesse next to the cunning genius of others, if not naïve. Outdated. A trap she couldn't escape against better judgment.

Treat your people fairly and honestly. Protect them with your life. Be firm, but put their well-being before your ambition and aims. Don't exploit them, don't betray them.

Cliché.

Until she had stood there amongst frightened and starving refugees in a doomed village, witnessed the horrors of civil war first hand, stepped into an Alienage for the first time and _realized_ the weight of duty.

Blurry feelings of regret and shame pulled at her heartstrings, not easily defined.

It was _not_ a strong Queen's quality to appoint a regent, when she intended to rule by herself. It was _not_ a strong Queen's quality to lend her regent the means to incite civil war, enforce a _slavery_ trade and free maleficars.

It was not a strong Queen's quality to stop serving her country because the madman destroying her kingdom was her father.

_Anora_ was the inadequate one. It was her duty, as a Cousland, as a noblewoman, to rid Ferelden of her.

Looking at that ugly scar on her weathered, lightly tanned skin that had become akin to a commoner's, she didn't know if it was reason, desperation or shreds of her deeply rooted arrogance that gave her this certainty.

Her arrogance had nearly killed the people who relied on her far too often. Could she even be considered a proper judge?

'_Would I have done less in her place?'_

She felt compelled to help others when it was within her power, but she was no kind-hearted saint. In Lothering, the first thing she'd asked a traumatized refugee had been whether he could keep on panicking while imitating a chicken. She had forced a tavern owner in Redcliffe to fight, knowing well that he stood no chance, because his attitude toward others had annoyed her. She'd flat out told Alistair that the Chantry's lyrium monopoly was an excellent way of control – not that she necessarily condoned it, but it _was_- and she had snapped at Leliana that her precious visions were delirious blasphemy. Caring for other people, especially people who social order dictated to be below her, didn't come naturally to her and her mistakes born out of little care for her company could very well have cost them their lives multiple times.

Yet she _had_ taken it upon herself to put this country back together from the ground, having lost everything she had to claim in this world. She _had_ raised an army to defeat the Blight despite never even having commanded a small troop of soldiers in battle before. She had been hunted, shunned, thrown out into a commoner's world without a soul to trust –as she had believed- and she alone had accomplished more unity in Ferelden over the past year during a civil war than the royal court with all its resources and power had.

It had to account for something. She _did_ have a say in this. No time for unproductive, self-deprecating thinking. It tended to make people end up dead.

Helpless laughter bubbled up her throat.

What a mess.

What a _mess_.

Where was her precious freedom now?

The game had changed, as Leliana would say, and for once she actually intended to play her part at full cost. Nameless pawns now bore the faces of the man she loved, dear friends who… _enjoyed_ her company, _trusted_ her, and the people who had allowed her family to find death by heinous betrayal, divided her country and tarnished Ferelden's most precious principles.

She scoffed quietly. And yet there were people who demanded neutrality from her. Demanded that she assumed the role of the impartial, duty-bound Grey Warden and removed herself from the political scene as quickly as she had come.

Was it not madness that she should not claim _anything_ in the midst of all this, after all she had to overcome, all she had learnt, all that had changed her? Was it not madness that she should return to nobility, rally an army and leave without a trace when her work was done?

Being a Grey Warden had done _nothing_ for her, except causing misery. Having a clearly defined purpose, on the other hand, _had_. Seeing the need for duty _had_. Undertaking this journey and meeting these people _had_.

The smallest experience and troubles had been the ones to benefit her the most, not legendary quests and gruesome terrors.

Life on the road would have driven her mad those first days after Ostagar, had the death of her family and the fall of Highever not numbed all her emotions long before the forsaken battle. She had been familiar with nature, certainly, but never as dependent on it, never experiencing its unforgiving, savage side this intensely. As nights and days went and came without cease and distant smiles faded into twilight, however, it had become increasingly harder to stay apathetic to the hostile conditions in the Wilds. During her training she had spent nights in the woods of Highever, but she had been well-equipped, familiar with her surroundings and comforted by the possibility of returning to the nearby castle if she so pleased. There had been no comfort in the Wilds, no place to go back to, just more and more unchartered territory and swamps, swamps, swamps, omnipresent swamps.

She had not required a personal maid as a noble and groomed herself though thoroughly not with outrageous luxury, but her concept of basic hygienic needs had caused her great distress to the point where she was close to despairing after hours of wading through the mud and the blood. Unable to stand the overwhelming stench, the sweat, no clear water to be spared for cleansing, she had taken to despising herself and anyone around her. Less than a human, an abomination of dirt she had walked among them. During those first weeks, first in the Korcari Wilds, later following the road that ran through Lothering, it had been her disgust with herself and her surroundings that had made her feel lost, hopeless and frail, more so, than the battles with bandits and scattered packs of Darkspawn that buzzed in front of her eyes in blurry, bloody shadows. Death, _survival_ had never been a constant in her life, yet all of a sudden it was all she saw, wherever she looked.

Her much desired return to civilization had been worse.

The sensation of being a stranger, mistrusted, hunted for bounty and required to prove herself in order to receive the smallest amounts of aid had devastated her, _her_, who had _always_ been important. Always been known. She had abhorred them all, filthy peasants that they were, not one of them knowing their proper place, blabbering on about who knew what and she had made her feelings known to no avail.

'Grey Warden this, Grey Warden that'. _Warden_. Not Milady, _Warden_.

She had had to realize that the simplest social interactions, quotidian dealings were alien to her. Fergus and father may have mingled with the common folk from time to time, but she definitely had not and used to being given what she desired, she had promptly made herself a target for ridicule and scorn. Despite her knack for manipulating others, she had been a proper fool the first time she had tried to barter with a merchant, because – most surprisingly- merchants dealt out of simple necessity and greed for money, nothing more, nothing less. She had known how to administrate an entire castle and she had known how to jiggle people's political ambitions and ego, but the harsh truth of have or have not had brought her to her knees. In the end she had stolen from him, like a common elven criminal and loathed herself, but even more so Duncan for it.

It had not taken long before she had had her second merchant crouching before her in the dust. (Effectively pleasing the Chantry of Lothering, but doing nothing to improve her social skills.)

Harder even than adapting her manner to this new Ferelden she had been discovering, though, had been adapting her mindset that had never struck her as particularly close-minded, until she actually came into contact with people of most colorful backgrounds.

Growing up a noble where the importance of family, heritage and connections was stressed meant considerable inhibitions had been instilled into her, without her even taking any notice. A Cousland owed all their subjects fairness, honesty and protection and she had been willing to grant that, (with minor importance actually placed on _honesty_) but they remained just that, _subjects_, no matter how friendly addressed. Humans and elves alike, they had had a specific place in this world and, of course, it had never been up there with her.

As a Grey Warden, though, the matter of dependence and independence had been taken out of her hands. Survival dictated that she had to keep the people watching her back from turning against her – and since she had no payment to offer, it required an approach on a personal level. She had been exceedingly uncomfortable- virtually unable- to regard her companions as her equals, which had seemed to be what they expected from her. Her insides had crawled at the thought, had screamed that this was wrong, wrong, wrong, not the way things were supposed to be. A slight against the natural order. Aloof and uncaring, when they had related a momentary concern to her, cynical, when an emotion had shone through, she had avoided conversation religiously, hoping they would not endeavor to talk to her again. Their continued presence had brought the last certainty left in her life to quaver.

Distancing herself in silent contempt from each and every of her companions save her beloved Marbari, however, had proven to be an unfavorable start of their journey. The weeks on their way to the Circle of Magi had been terribly uncoordinated due to her poor leadership – Morrigan, whose back she hadn't bothered to guard, would have been fatally stabbed during a bandit attack had Sten not stepped in with his unnatural reflexes, supplies had run out by the minute, dissatisfaction and distrust had poisoned their working together- yet she couldn't have helped it. They had revolted her. A barbaric swamp witch dressed in rags, an Orlesian trickster, a heathen Qunari, naturally a criminal and, worst of the lot, a dim-witted _Grey Warden _bastard who had put her on the spot.

Out of them all, Alistair had made it the easiest to despise him with his constant chattering. She had gladly taken her frustrations out on him, since she had desperately needed an enemy. His sorrow for Duncan, the man who had torn her away from her doomed parents with no regard for their certain death, had infuriated her, his neglect for personal hygiene – so what if he was a warrior?- had disgusted her and his being a bastard had repulsed her.

Even when her ire, not her unwillingness, but her ire regarding her conscription had cooled down, it had taken her several life – and death situations before she had given him consideration as an _actual_ human being. The word 'bastard' had blocked out everything else there was to know about him, before she even could have helped it, showing the exact same scornful reaction most nobles would display. To be sure, he had not even been the only one of questionable parentage in her growing lethal band of misfits. But Leliana was as good as Orlesian –and you _knew_ Orlesians, Zevran, well, he was an elf- it was understood. Morrigan had grown up in a puddle of mud, which she really hadn't needed to hear more of. Qunari probably did not even have a concept of marriage.

Alistair alone had been a human-raised, Fereldan bastard and it had offended her greatly how nonchalantly he had attempted to converse with her as if it was within his standing to do so.

He hadn't even been put off by her quips, like when she'd remarked that his mother had _had_ to be a bitch, for example. It had been quite unnerving, since her sharp sarcasm had always been her way of keeping people away. You could tarnish Duncan's memory only so often, until it felt like kicking a puppy in the face.

Interaction with the others had not really been much better, if less wordy.

She had known that she had hit the bottom, when it had been a talking rock with a fixation on bird-i-cide that appreciated her the most.

Her social abilities, often admired and praised, had proven abysmal and it had been like watching Fergus laughing with his great, big crowd of good, honest friends from the sidelines all over again. Aware that she had done something wrong, but unable to figure out how to fix things.

And yet, her prejudices put to the test again and again until she had not been able to cling to them anymore, she had grown into her unwanted, unfamiliar role as a leader, because there had been no one else to do it. She had not been their front soldier and had oftentimes left the glory of victory to her warrior companions, being of little use in the midst of a full-blown battle. But she had learnt to use her innate abilities and strengths to lead them towards their goals, to organize, coordinate and to strategize, because, as had struck her one day, she _knew_ how to do that. It had been what she had been _raised_ to do. The knowledge she had amassed in her youth was fit to be applied beyond her own concerns and ambitions.

She had hated it, of course. She had hated to be judged for her actions, not to judge the actions of others. She had hated to _have_ to please. Hated to make decisions that had direct consequences for herself, hated that she was the one who had to catch up while others schemed.

With time things had looked up, though. They had.

A knock on the door shook her out of her reverie and she stilled, her back straight as a stick.

Sweet Maker. Not now.

Reluctantly, she let go of the dress in her hands, alert, but not yet willing to be concerned. Barefoot, she tip-toed over the moonlit blue cascades of silk over to the door of her chamber, quiet, inaudible as had become natural to her. When she opened it a few inches, her eyes found her fellow warden standing in front of it, his hair tousled, his gaze troubled.

"Ceridwen, are you awake?" he whispered voicelessly, barely looking at her or…anything. She lifted her right eyebrow. A nervous late night chat was hardly reassuring considering the task that lay before them in the morrow.

" 'Twould _seem_ so, would it not?" She asked pointedly, intentionally imitating a dear friend's pattern of speech. If he recoiled in shock, she would at least know that he was still in his right mind.

Sure enough, a shudder went through his body.

"Maker, you sound like _Morrigan_."

"Duly noted." She clicked her tongue. "And now I am motivated to open this door for you…why?"

He only looked at her with unfocused, restless eyes and had most likely not even registered her words. She grimaced, her gaze hitting the ceiling.

"Oh, come on in, if come in you must." Not bothering to lower her voice much, she muttered aside: "Curing social awkwardness _one step at a time. _Next lesson: timing and introduction."

"Ha. Ha. Very cute. You see that face? That's me not laughing, you know."

"It is? Bless me, I would not have known it from your face when you are not thinking. It all makes sense now."

"Now, you're just trying to be hurtful."

"Try dead tired and at the end of my wits."

She took a step back and gestured for him to come in. Not a single sound was to be heard coming from the floors and the hall, where there had been a great hustle and bustle all day. Even the servants were all gone to bed already. A silent night's sleep for few precious hours. It almost seemed unreal.

Alistair took great strides past her towards her bed and slumped down on it with little regard for propriety. She knew too well what weighed on his mind. Crossing her arms over her stomach, she walked over and settled down next to him. He didn't venture to speak, when she sat, and she didn't urge him to. For a little while they just stared. At the blackened walls, the moonlit window, the crumbled dress. The silence between them was suffocating, both of them trying to sort out their thoughts.

At last Alistair fell onto his back between the pillows, covering his eyes with his hands.

"This is madness, Ceridwen. _Madness_."

She gave a faint, humorless smile and fell down next to him. Her head was merely inches apart from his, eyes roaming the shadows. It was strange that the night should be so silent, so devoid of anything palpable, when before it had always been filled with a myriad of sounds.

"Nah. You know what madness is?"

Her voice rang idly into the empty space of her chamber. Thin beams of moonlight drew plenty pale patterns on the walls, but above her head everything was black and ominous. As if the darkness in her memories came down to consume her in her sleep. Maybe this feeling was what the dwarves feared when they spoke about falling into the sky. Drowning in an endless, distant pool, falling deeper and deeper, until it enveloped you completely.

"Madness is….waking a sleeping high dragon, just so you can boast about it."

He remained quiet, obviously unimpressed with her argumentation. She tilted her face to look at him.

"Think about it. It is insane and should not be done."

A smirk spread over her face.

"Thank _you_, by the way."

His hands slid down to his cheeks, so she could see his glare.

"Heey. It was _your_ idea! I protested, remember?"

"Not much, you didn't."

"Well, Morrigan was against it, so naturally I had to go with it. It's creepy to be on her side. And emasculating. But I protested mentally the entire time, Warden's honor."

Smiling more broadly than she felt cheerful, she plucked his right hand off his face and clasped it within hers.

"We did make quite a good run for it, though, didn't we? Just look at the shiny new armor Wade made for us."

"The one you sold on the spot, you mean?"

"The very same."

Alistair snorted, giving her hand a little squeeze. They fell back into silence and he seemed to mull over her words.

Admittedly, the High Dragon hadn't been one of her greatest ideas. She had been out cold minutes before Alistair finally chopped of its head, as he was usually expected to do when she teased a big, bad monster with her arrows. It wasn't that she was incompetent. The problem with dragons was that they couldn't be killed with one single shot, not even a crystal clear one. But once you placed your first arrow, the beasts started to fly around, which made it incredible hard to aim, for their wings stirred up a forceful gush of air. She had anticipated that, of course, but it had just seemed such incredible waste not to use the Horn she had found in Kolgrim's belongings and miss the chance to catch sight of one of the most majestic creatures that wandered the surface of Thedas. She was sure that Morrigan would have strangled her on the spot had she caught on sooner that she intended to put the horn to use, which, considering that most of the arrows that did _not_ miss bounced off the dragon's scales, was a reasonable reaction. But as always she had been a tiny little bit overly confident in her abilities to master any threat.

And they had mastered it well enough. Even if her highly esteemed Witch of the Wilds had charred a great deal of hair in the process, which had proven a quite difficult situation to maneuver diplomatically.

Alistair perked up beside her, his voice notably hopeful.

"Say. Is it socially acceptable amongst high class nobility to put a sword through Loghain's head like that?"

She contemplated it, scrunching her face up.

"Mmm…."

"We could make an armor from his bones. Shiny armor. You like selling shiny armor."

"Maybe a pretty dress. He _does_ have very nice hair for his age."

His horror war almost palpable and she was thankful that he was obviously very much deprived of sleep, because at any other time a comment like that just might have made the Order short of one Warden.

"Okay that is… messed up. Just… answer the question, please."

"You don't think he has nice hair?"

"Answer. The. Question."

A short laugh escaped her throat, but she sobered up, before any other had the chance to pass her lips. Pressing her point on _that_ particular topic would most likely end with her stepping on his toes.

"Well no, Alistair, you cannot put a sword through his head. Not right away, at least. There is a protocol for everything, you see, and if you do not respect it, you will never be invited to another spring ball. We cannot let that happen. It would be tantamount to social suicide. Now. It will go somewhat as the following: First there will be a lot of boasting, then there will be even more roaring and _then, _when both have been deemed satisfactory,comes the slaying. You _have_ the duty to entertain. That is why there are so many people invited. High class nobles love good drama."

He groaned.

"Great. Let's just make Zevran king, then."

She withdrew her hand and raised her upper body, supporting her weight on her elbow as she looked down on him. The gleam in her blue eyes was barely noticeable.

"A thought with merit, if unconventional. Do you think he will still allow me into his bed, after I refused his advances so fervently, though? It would be a shame to let all my hard work of bedding future royalty go to waste. I do love answering to a king."

"Oh no, you don't." He reached for her, chuckling, and pulled her back down against his chest. She smiled slightly as they kissed. Unfortunately it did not stop the glum awareness that had settled within her during the last week. They were being foolish and she knew it would not bode well to ignore what was certain to happen once the dies would be cast tomorrow.

She was to lose _this._

Neither of them spoke for a while, each tending to personal qualms and demons and by the Maker, they were plentiful. She knew perfectly well that he would not have come into her room if he was not close to fretting. His respect for Arl Eamon rivaled the one he held for Duncan even though the latter was laced only with sorrow and survivor's guilt, not bitterness and rejection. Since they had moved to this estate, he had barely exchanged any words with her when there was somebody else in the room, lest the Arl's sense of propriety was disturbed. Eamon was the closest thing to a father figure he had left and he wanted to do right by him, even though he had been wronged so often.

Such misplaced affection. His struggling for a bit of acceptance, a _bit_ of genuine care for his person that drove him to cling to his duties, no matter how ungrateful they were, had…struck her, when she'd first realized it.

She sighed, drawing closer to him.

"Hey." Her thumb stroked lazily over his collarbone. "It's going to be alright. You will take to ordering others about before you know it, trust me. Being pampered is really not as stressful as it seems."

"Uh…aha. If you say so." He turned his face away from her. "But. You know. It's just. It's not…it's not right."

She stilled. "Not… _right_?"

"For me to become king. I'm a Warden and I've-"

She interrupted him, her voice suddenly low and cutting. "I see."

"You _do_? Really?"

"Royalty must seem such a fickle thing next to the great Wardens."

"Huh?"

With a furious jerk, she sat up, her blood pumping in her ears.

"How can you ever think of abandoning the magnificent Order of righteousness? Are you in your right mind? It is the duty that cannot be foresworn, the duty of duties, a treaty with the Maker himself. I say, we should just conscript any sentient being we can find and declare global neutrality. "

"Ceridwen, what…?"

She ignored him as she conjured up all the empty lectures she had received.

"I am so sick of all of Thedas preaching about Grey Warden duty this and Grey Warden duty that and 'go kill yourself for my sake, leave your meaningless past behind you, you are so much more than you have ever been!' What do _they_ know about who _I_ have been? What do _they_ know about nobility? It's not fancy tea parties and fashionable gowns and exploiting the poor all the time! Nobility, _royalty_, has been established in order to organize people. Do you have any idea how many die during a famine? How many die annually due to bad administration, sickness, juridical arbitrariness? During civil wars and uprisings and revolts and invasions?"

"Now wait a -"

"I do! I have studied these things in my idle, meaningless time as a noble, waiting for my greater purpose as a human sacrifice! Do you think that people rely any less on us than on the Grey Wardens? Who has to pick up the pieces after a war, a Blight and re-establish a functioning society? Who has to preserve peace and welfare so there _is_ a world left to defend against darkspawn? What good does it _do_ to end the Blight when society falls apart? There are many brave, worthy people out there in all sort of standings, who fight just as well as a Grey Warden born into nobility would. You _cannot_ replace a king as easily as you can replace a Warden. Why does nobody ever realize this? Gah!"

Her breathing was hard, her face flushed, the words poured out in a rush that was utterly unbecoming. They had gone over this already. _She_ had had to go over it with him, with Wynne, with herself and it did nothing for her fluttering nerves or the confusion inside her. She loathed having been forced to _foreswear_ her duty to Ferelden. The consciousness that a noble had to serve this kingdom, its people had been ingrained in her since she had been born. Was she to believe that her former life had had no purpose?

And yet, down there in those wretched Deep Roads for days, _weeks_, it had suddenly seemed as if no price was too high to pay, no duty greater than to stop _this_. To end these horrors. She did not know what to think, anymore.

Alistair looked as if he had been struck by an ogre.

"Wow.", he said after an awkward pause and raked a hand through his hair, regarding her as if she had grown a second head. Self-consciousness enveloped her and with it came embarrassment.

"What? What is it?"

"Well, uh…." Alistair shook his head, a nervous chuckle escaping his throat. "Actually, I was just going to pull off a little self-loathing stint with some childhood-complexes and festering doubts on the side, but you went… right over the edge there. I am scared out of my wits, somewhat impressed and mildly aware that I should disapprove of your points about the Grey Wardens and run off in a huff. But, you know. Scared out of my wits just about covers it."

"_Uh-oh_. Ahm…", she stammered, suddenly deeply mortified. "_Well_. It needed to be said. Once and for all."

He made a non-commital humming sound, observing her motions as if she would jump him any second now to tear off his head. "Uhuh."

"Because of the…the…_dismal_ lack of knowledge on the matter."

"Uhuh."

"And as the Chantry preaches…awareness… is the first step towards…clarity?"

"Uh…. Huh."

She groaned, slumped back down and buried her face in his shoulder, so she would not have to endure his ever so slightly amused expression. There was nothing worse than when words failed her. Especially not in front of him, who she had pretty much slighted because of his bumbling every time she had had the chance.

"You ass, _why_ are you not _asleep_?" she grumbled into his linen shirt.

"Was that a swear word passing through your lips, Milady? Andraste's Grace, I shall never recover from such a shocking breach of etiquette."

"_Why_?"

"Because I enjoy causing beautiful, irritable women the stress of their life in the dead of the night?"

"Feel free to visit Morrigan."

"And risk being blinded on the spot? I rather think not."

He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring her muffled protests. It certainly spoke for how far they had come that he had indeed not run off in a huff after she had expressed her distaste for being forced into the Order so openly and…irrationally. Ten months ago he would have shunned her for at least a week, donning that wretched accusatory mien he sported as soon as he believed Duncan's memory stained and done his best to grind on her conscience. Then again, ten months ago she would have poisoned 'the bastard' for so much as thinking of relating his troubles to her, let alone touching her. Maker, perhaps she _was_ a shrill harpy, after all.

Her ear tickled, as he murmured quietly:

"Or, you know. I could be deathly terrified of tomorrow. Which _would_ be pretty lame in comparison"

She shifted slightly. "I _told_ you, not to worry."

"You _told_ me, not do everything others expect me to do."

"That was not about me. You should do the things I tell you. I have become really good at managing other people's lives."

"Aha! So now you have taken the position of the nagging wife in our charming little ragtag family, have you?", he asked with a smirk.

She went stiff in his arms. "Ah…"

"I _knew_ something was missing. We already have the granny, the bastard, the older sister, the insufferable brother, obviously adopted against reason, the drunken uncle, the stoic, mysterious… _guy_, the massive, yet sassy aunt, the _dog_, but …Wait! I got an idea. _You_ can tell the dog to sleep outside and never come back, can't you? It's the kind of thing nagging wives do. It bites. And scratches. It's evil."

Her mouth was dry, but she shook her momentary paralysis off.

"I assume you are speaking of Morrigan?"

"What can I say? She's a bitch."

"Careful, your Bastardy. Maybe the flying dogs of Anderfels raised her, before they gave her to Flemeth. You two could be whelps of the same kennel, who knows?"

The expression on his face was comically horrified. "Uh, no. Not having it. One shrill shrew of a sister is enough, thank you."

"But you will never quite know for sure, will you?" She removed her face from his shoulder and rolled over, so she could rest the back of her head comfortably on his chest. Her eyes were going to be bloodshot tomorrow, if sleep did not claim her soon, but her mind was still swirling. All the better. It would add to her barbarian appeal. Ceridwen Cousland the horror of Highever, swooping down on the Landsmeet. Maybe she should have looked for a club to wear over her shoulder as a finishing touch. Fergus would be so proud, if he was still alive. He had seen it coming _all_ those years.

"Alright. You know what is going to happen tomorrow?" she asked, emboldened and exhausted at the same time by the turn her thoughts had taken. "Tomorrow, _we_ are going to stroll in there, pull our 'Wardens are awesome card', say 'Ha! You lose!" to Loghain when all the Banns and Arls swoon over our amazing selves, put a sword through his head, get Anora to finally _shut up_ and put you on the throne so Ferelden can have its Happily Cheesy After."

Alistair considered this very seriously.

"…There will be cheese?"

"Royal cheese. Lots of it."

"Hm. What do you say about that? Loghain dead and lots of cheese. I think I can live with that."

He peered down at her, narrowing his eyes.

"But I bet you five Sovereigns that you won't dare saying 'Ha! You lose!" to him in front of all the assembled nobles."

She scoffed. "You know I will."

"Actions speak louder than words, love. Even… if the action _is_ speaking words in this case, I guess. Uhm."

Alright, so this was a far cry from a normal conversation.

His underlying tension was tangible, even as he jested with her. Loghain was a sensitive subject, the pain of losing his Warden friends and Duncan still as vivid and fresh in his mind as a year ago. There was not much she could – or was willing- to say in order to make things better, so she just played along with it. She understood the importance and urgency of vengeance better than anyone and she knew that a burning hunger for revenge would not be quenched with pretty, sympathetic words or stony silence. Even now, after she had seen Howe bleed out on the floor, in filth and ashes, she felt it consume her. Nothing she had done was adequate to right the dead of Highever and nothing ever would be. But she had taken the liberty to act senselessly on her fury and she could hardly deny him the same, even if others would judge them. Some wounds cut too deeply.

Alistair had not seen her when she had avenged her family and it was a blessing. No words could capture her feelings as her arrows had pierced open his chest, as she had used her bow to smash in his face, his limbs, his everything with a force she hadn't known she possessed. Stumbling away from Howe's mauled body in a state of bloodred frenzy she had then stabbed the imprisoned Vaughn to death, without remorse, for his vile crimes against the elves of Denerim. Morrigan had watched her wordlessly; her face unreadable, but the understanding expression in Zevran's and Leliana's face that stemmed from a grim history of personal experience had just about killed her.

Were she not so intimately involved, she might have even understood Loghain's retreat in Ostagar as a tactical necessity. She had oftentimes heard him to be a man who acted out of reason, not ambition. But with the cruel silencing of any opposing party that resulted in civil war, the disaster in Redcliffe, the traumatized elven children in cages, almost on their way to Tevinter, it became impossible for her to condone and to _understand_.

"He will be brought to justice.", she whispered hoarsely, even though the word 'justice' tasted bitter in her mouth. "We will not have let them die unavenged. Trust me."

He nodded jerkily. She knew that she could not expect more. It was his burden to deal with his losses, just as it was hers to keep her grievances at bay.

After a small eternity, he said:

"But what if they vote against us? Anora will never speak for us over her own father."

"Yes, she will."

"Oh?"

She fixated the ceiling with her gaze, her face hardening. "I told her we would spare her father and give her the throne. She assured me her support in return. "

A jolt went through his body. "What? You…but you _lied_, didn't you?"

She shrugged. "Of course, I lied. If she were any good judge of character and political arrangements as she claims so frequently, she would have seen through the ruse. I believe she did not doubt my word, though. I have done my best playing the naïve, clueless junior Warden and she was ready to take it for the truth. If she falls for it, it is her due to her own inadequacy. Nobility is no place for the easily deceived."

As she had so bitterly learned. Alistair sighed.

"Well _that_ just makes me feel all the better about this."

Smirking, she glanced up at him.

"We could still make Zevran king."

"And hear him gloat all about it on our way to the Archdemon? Not likely to happen."

"Aw, he is not that bad. Not…really."

"You said the exact same thing about Morrigan and look where we are now."

"On a bed, fully clothed, in the middle of the night, worrying our heads off?"

"Well, there just went my chain of thought, thank you."

Sometimes it was the damnedest thing that they both used humor to deflect.

She knew it was not going to be easy for him to assume the role he had been raised _not_ to claim. He had never been allowed to build a proper self-esteem or a proper back-bone that went beyond enabling him to fulfill expectations of others. It seemed suspicious to the point of ridiculous that he should have been schooled in a place sheltered from any secular matters _just_ because of a pious wife's jealousy. Templar vows were a perfect way to end a sideline to the Theirin's legacy before it had even really started and she wondered how many noblemen had rid themselves of unwanted offspring in exactly the same manner. Ripping them away from life, before they had even had any choice in the matter. Luckily she knew her father to have been an honest man.

Too honest for his own good, some would say.

She understood how Alistair felt, though, at least to some extent, even if she was by far more experienced than he in politics. All the while she had been pushing him to accept his role as heir to the throne, she had listened to the rumors and reports from Highever, scared and desperate to know more at the same time. Rebellion had been raised against Howe's rule in her name after her first exploits and the fact that she had survived the massacre had become known. Her father had been so popular with the people that many said he should have been king instead of Cailan and Highever, ardently loyal to the Cousland line that had ruled over them even before the rise of Calenhad, _called_ for her. If Fergus was already dead and she lived beyond the Blight, they would want her to be Teyrna.

The stranger she had become, a _Teyrna_.

It was a scary prospect to have people demand her to step up and rule over them, when the Blight loomed over the horizon and she might perish any time of the day. Knowing that blood had already been spilled for the mere _hope_ that she could make things better. To go into it unprepared, unknowing what needed to be done …some would say impossible.

Perhaps it would be a merciful deed to let him remain a Grey Warden. But when the chips had been down and she had pinned him for a decision, _his_ decision, _he_ had told her to make him king in order to salvage what the Mac Tirs had destroyed.

It was that spark which made her believe in him and it would have to do as recommendation. He wouldn't back down from his duty and she would be there to guard his back, one way or another.

"You know…I have just thought of something.", he suddenly interrupted her foreboding musings.

"And the world froze in shock and awe as it beheld him conceiving a thought.", she replied gravely, before she could help herself, imitating the Chantry's Cantors that had employed their services frequently during their travels. "For was it the final dawn of light or the light finally dawning on him?"

"Tsk. So much cruelty from such a beautiful woman. How _do_ you live with the guilt?"

"Lots and lots of shooting things that try to kill me." She reached up and pulled his face to her lips, planting a soft kiss on his jaw. "There. All better now?"

He chuckled, the rumbling of his chest making her shift uncomfortably. She was fidgety already. With a small huff, she sat up, strands of dark, uncombed hair dangling in front of her eyes. Sure enough, he followed suit, brushing her hair aside, _looking_ at her. It was most unwelcome. She didn't like this… inquisitive expression. Ever since she had told him to stand up for himself after the crushing disappointment of meeting a sister who wanted no relation to him, he had noticeably lost some of his awkward inhibitions when he interacted with others. Unfortunately, that meant he actually acted on his curiosity if he wondered about something.

"You mentioned the word 'nobility' awfully often in your little 'blowing off steam' and 'putting Alistair in his place'-thing you did earlier. I am still suffering from the aftershocks, by the way. Now I am not the expert." He shrugged. "But I always thought nobility and royalty are not quite the same thing."

Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. "What are you asking me, exactly?"

"Nothing, really. It just seems that _somebody_ in this room is having a nasty, little identity crisis of their own. Besides me, I mean. I'm obligatorily freaking out."

She avoided his gaze.

"I'll see to assure Cahan of his Marbari identity right when he wakes up."

The tone of his voice turned firm. "Ceridwen."

"What is it?"

"Are you…_nervous_?" He fumbled for the word, obviously uncertain of how to go on if she confirmed it to be true, which in itself was quite pleasing to behold.

"About standing before them, I mean?"

"_Them_?"

"Other _nobles_. You know, the funny-speaking people with fine clothes, fancy names, lots of money and a chip on their shoulder? You've heard of them, I suppose?"

"Do not be ridiculous.", she snapped with far less venom than she usually could muster up. " High Dragons and ancient, shape shifting Witchs of the Wild, remember? I am _never_ nervous."

She turned from him, so the shadow passing over her face would not show. "Especially not because of nobles."

"Yeaaah, I can see _that_. "

Her head jerked around and she glared at him. "Well, what do you know, Ser-I-cannot-be-King? Do you think I can just put on this dress and it will all be the same again, just like that? It will _not_. _I_… cannot."

Alistair blinked.

"Now you've lost me."

"Trust me, you would not understand."

"Uh." He seemed mildly apprehensive. "Is…Is this the part where I beat a hasty retreat, or something? Have I missed my cue?"

Groaning, she bent over the frame of her bed and gathered the blue dress in her arms, shoving it towards him, before he could say much else. The look he gave that thing was almost hysterical. He probably would not have known it from a tapestry if she had told him it was one. The finesse of fashionable, 'impractical' clothing was entirely beyond him and she was pretty sure that she and Leliana had traumatized him that one day in the market of Denerim when they had started to have an animated chat about Orlesian shoes out of nowhere.

The pesky thought that the shoes she had bought Leliana out of sentiment would have suited this dress marvelously snuck into her head like an unwanted intruder.

"_That _is the sort of thing pretty young noblewoman wear to an important occasion.", she informed him impassively.

"Without tripping over their feet? Impressive." He put the dress aside, completely unfazed. "So…_why _can't you 'put it on'? Besides it being a death trap, I mean? You're not pretty? Not young? No important occasion to go to?"

She shook her head.

"You're…uh…not a noblewoman?"

When she didn't say anything, he raised his eyebrows at her.

" Wasn't your father a teyrn? I thought that _was_ nobility. Or are we still in the Fade and all of this is a parallel reality? And how is any of this even _relevant_?"

"Of course Father was teyrn."

"Aha! Soooo…" he drew out the word, trying to make sense of her. "You were _born_ a noble, but… you _are_ not a noble anymore? It just went 'puff' or something?"

Swinging her legs to the ground in one swift moment, she stood, her exasperation with the topic written all over her face. "Look, could you just leave now, please? We need to rest the few precious hours left before it dawns. Loghain will not be impressed if we try to yawn him into defeat."

"Oh, I got you there, didn't I?" Alistair said triumphantly, considered his own words, stared at her reddening face for a second, and then started laughing. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"I would very much appreciate it if you stopped that."

"Are you serious? You're not 'noble' enough anymore?", He chortled, his mirth doing little to appease her embarrassment at having been figured out. Leaping from her bed, he grabbed her shoulders, before she could dodge his hands, and assumed an overly melodramatic air to speak. "Ceridwen, you are without doubt…. excepting the Queen-that-shall-not-be-named… the _poshest_ woman I know! And I mean that with love, of course."

She recoiled, pushing him back at arm-length. "_Me_? The poshest woman you….Why…" Her eyes went as wide as saucers. "_Posher than_ _Isolde_?"

"Will you hurt me if I say yes?"

"Of course I will!", she cried out in horror." She's _Orlesian_!"

"Oh well. Lucky me that you hit like a girl."

She smacked his shoulder instantly. "Archers have strong arms, you know!"

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

"_Stupid_ plate armor oaf." she mumbled displeased, but allowed him to embrace her. This was irritating. And unproductive. He tended to make her do silly, un-Ceridwen-ish things, but the timing had never been _this_ off. Were they not supposed to compose themselves and go through all the difficult topics before everything changed, instead of bickering like two-year olds? Was she even to be held accountable for anything she said anymore? Her chin dropped onto his shoulder.

"I am not posh."

"Well, we _could_ call it selectively appreciative, I suppose. But it doesn't have quite such a ring to it."

"Is this how you plan to treat others when you are king? Cruelly discrediting them?"

"Perish the thought, dear Lady. Besides, we have all been gossiping about you, you know, and agreed that you are actually a big softie inside."

"Alistair…", she said warningly.

"Or was that just me and Oghren burped, which, with him, totally classifies as approval? I can hardly seem to remember. The dread of being king is sneaky, like that. Overshadows everything."

This was all wrong.

"Alistair, what are we even _doing _here?"

"You are being… _weird_, actually, and I have just learnt to hold the Chantry proverb 'ignorance is bliss' closer to my heart."

He caught her expression and sobered up. She leant into his touch almost subconsciously, when he cupped her haggard face with his left hand.

"You're overanalyzing things, love. You always do." He told her seriously. "You are going to knock them off their feet tomorrow and with Ferelden united we _will_ end this Blight before it spins out of control."

She was tempted to remark that he sounded almost like Wynne when she shared her 'it will all work out in the end' philosophy, but the words were stuck like a bitter lump in her throat. As she looked up at him, her eyes shone dimly in the moonlight.

"And then you will be king."

"I will be king." He echoed with faint disbelief audible in his voice, but no doubt.

She wanted to tell him then. Tell him, how she was frightened to face them all as the disgraced, homeless Cousland and see in their eyes that she did not belong. How she was still hopelessly vain, despairing over her sunken in cheeks and roughened, scarred skin, and how she was comforted by the fact that he should still think her beautiful. How she still longed for her life as a noblewoman and would dream of running away and leaving the Wardens behind her. That she struggled between her selfish, outwardly callous nature and her honest desire to help others, tightrope-walking between conflicting instincts. That she did not have a back-up plan if Anora decided to betray them. That it terrified her to imagine her arguments would be countered expertly, her attempts at accusation futile, her words spoken in vain, after all those years she had taken herself for an excellent speaker. That she was arrogant, self-righteous, much too sure of her abilities and reckless when it mattered the most. How she had already failed those she had held dearest once and was afraid that she would do so a second time. How she wanted to hate him for not allowing her to back out of _this_, because he had not told her about his heritage till long after the Circle, the Deep Roads, after he had wormed his way through her defenses and kissed her. That she knew it was wrong that she should take rule over his life as she had and had pushed him towards the throne, just because the noble inside her head had screamed that the Theirin line had to be preserved and this was how it was supposed to be. That she _believed_ in his abilities to be king, because he was a good man, but feared the moment when he would have to part from her. How unfair it was that she should not be able to give him heirs. That she loved him and regretted having taken so long to get to know him, because of a single, awful prejudice.

But her grievances were _her_ burdens to carry and she would be no less than Ferelden deserved. So she kept silent and just moved in to kiss him, sweetly, desperately, urgently. He clung to her with equal fervor, but there was none of the undampened joy between them she had cherished so much and it was little more than a drawn out farewell that registered with her brain. Her body went cold and numb, when his arms left her, when he stroked her cheek and wished her a good night. Left alone in the dark, she leaned against the closing door and slid down to the ground, for once uncaring that cowering on the floor was most unbecoming. The tight clenching sensation that spread through her chest pressed the air out of her lungs.

A shallow laugh rung out into the void.

So this was nobility, after all. _Sacrifice_.

She crossed her arms over her knees and buried her head inside them.

It would be a lie to say that she had not thought about marriage. The obvious reason had initiated the idea, but it hadn't been the only merit to the thought. With only Arl Eamon's word and his uncanny resemblance to the late kings Maric and Cailan to recommend Alistair's claim to be of Theirin blood, the legitimacy of said claim was very vulnerable. A fact with dangerous potential, considering that the country had just been divided due to civil war and mistrust brewed bitterly amongst the nobles. Alistair needed strong alliances with houses other than Arl Eamon's, who most of them would see as the bastard's puppeteer. Someone had to do the first step and show through affiliation with the 'outsider' that he was a safe deal, not a blemish on their honor, or a placeholder. Someone had to make clear that they answered to his call and would defend his position at personal cost when conflict arose. If they wanted to avoid usurpation and uprisings devastating a weak and battered Ferelden, they could not afford an inexperienced, estranged king. The risk of further senseless deaths and even a foreign invasion would be well within the probable otherwise.

Before Howe she had been of a standing second only to the king himself and her reluctance to marry below her station had always been well-known. A union between them would be a harsh blow for those who took to doubting his claim and it would be an unexpected and therefore effective move, too, so shortly after Alistair's existence had even been known. It was one thing to take an Arl's word for sham, yet quite another when it was the Teyrna of Highever's word, a teyrna, who put her reputation and house's honor on the line by wedlock with a royal bastard. Admittedly, wedding Anora and Alistair, seeing as Anora was already Queen, would be well enough to demonstrate his legitimacy in its own right, but an arrangement coming from her side would have much, much stronger impact. When it came down to it, Anora was still a commoner with a heritage that reached not beyond one generation – the scion of this generation being a man who had discredited all the merits of his youth with the crimes of his later life. Common folk in all parts of Ferelden grumbled about a 'stained' royal line already, going so far as to declare the Queen barren due to her origin. How would distrust spread through the hard times following a Blight, when there was a commoner Queen, already suspected of displeasing the Maker, and a bastard on the throne?

The Couslands' line, in contrast, was ancient even by nobility's standards and a well-respected part of Fereldan History. As she was most likely the last scion of her house, it would be generally understood that she would not form alliances that dishonored the legacy she alone upheld. Anora had been a good Queen for five years, yet what were five years and familial relation with a usurper-once-hero against a long, glorious line of Cousland scions whose tainted name would be relieved of all doubt once Loghain was exposed as an enemy?

It was a well-proven mechanism that people sought out the familiar and dependable, when chaos and havoc broke loose. Unfair or not, as a Cousland she could guarantee exactly that just by name.

Of course there would be some who would contest her word and her support for Alistair on the ground of Loghain's heinous lies about the Couslands' allegiance with Orlais. But none of them could cling to their objections forever and hinder her being called forward as new teyrna, when the people of Highever were fighting in her name already. With the teyrnir in her hand, she united the Arls sworn to her as was her right, thus lending Alistair a military and political base that was not quite so easily changed. Marriage was not necessary for that particular proceeding, but it would quench any further aspiration to cause unrest in the teyrnir in hopes of splitting the alliance of Highever and Denerim, thus strengthening the king's position and more effectively ensuring peace. Maker be willing that all her efforts of the past year were not to be in vain, it should not even pose a grand problem that it would be two Grey Wardens ruling alongside. Ferelden had no present memory of the Wardens save for Loghain's lies and should they be blessed enough to bring this Blight to an end, this last year of hate and distrust would fade into oblivion. Their shortened life-spans should be long enough to establish a secure foundation for following generations.

It was a beautiful scheme, if not for one fatal flaw ruining all these calculations.

She could not bear him children.

He had told her as much only a couple of nights ago, when she had hesitantly wondered their future prospects and it had been akin to a death blow.

A royal couple without heirs was tantamount to inviting a new civil war taking place, especially when a king had thirty years left at the most. Putting Ferelden through this would devaluate all the benefits of their union. Moreover, she would not - _could_ not- convince him to father a _bastard_ of his own for pretenses, just so she could secure her position as Queen-consort.

She lifted her gaze from her elbows and bit back a suspicious prickling in her eyes that she _would not allow_.

But it seemed unjust. There was so much good she could have done. So much good she would have been _willing_ to do.

So much personal happiness finally gained after all her losses and sacrifices.

The Wardens could hardly deter a country's Queen from assuming her role, but they could certainly force her to foreswear her duties as Teyrna, especially with Alistair on the throne who, she suspected, would not oppose their bidding. Once they had taken to rebuilding the Order in Ferelden, she would be one Warden amongst many, doing her own share of good and duty, until Darkspawn took her life. It was a vital task. She had seen the Deep Roads. She had beheld the Broodmothers. But the bit of slaying she could do in her time rang hollow next to the opportunities she had to contribute to reviving Ferelden after the Blight's horrors had passed, opportunities that were open to her – _only_ to her- due to her blood.

She had been raised in luxury and privilege so she would make use of them.

Was it selfish to abandon the Wardens once she had paid her dues? Or was it selfish _not_ to abandon them?

Both ways dictated _sacrifice_.

The word ran around in her head.

_Sacrifice_.

She stood quicker than her head formed the idea, moved swiftly like a shadow through the chamber. With shaking hands she grabbed the wretched blue dress, regarding it as though some sort of epiphany had hit her.

_In chess you had to sacrifice the queen, when the king was on the line. _

Her thoughts were swirling. She strode through the vacant corridors of Arl Eamon's estate never losing her way, but far from paying attention to her surroundings, the dress dragging behind her over the cold stone.

_But you kept the queen in your game as long as you could._

Why had she not seen this before? It was a simple, _trivial_ matter of reasonable _sacrifice_.

She came to stand before a room at the far end of the hall. For a split-second, she fidgeted, uncertain how to proceed. It would be rude to wake her now, just like this. How would she explain?

Ever so hesitantly she took a step back, before she stopped in her tracks.

What in the Maker's name?

What was _wrong_ with her?

If _she_ had not managed to catch a good night's sleep, why should others? It was not as if they had business tomorrow that surpassed hers terribly in importance.

With newfound resolve, she rapped her knuckles against wood. When no answer came, she pounded more violently, impatiently tapping her left foot.

She perceived quiet mumbling, the shifting of furniture and even light footsteps slapping on stone. Curious. Someone seemed to be _really_ tired. Perhaps a natural reaction when offered a bed after weeks in camp.

The wood shifted aside and she caught sight of flaming red hair and narrowed, blue eyes that seemed barely able to focus on her.

"C-Ceridwen? Is that you?"

She smiled broadly, despite herself.

"Leliana! Are you awake?"

"I…."

"Marvellous." she interrupted, before the bard had a chance to say a word. "You shall be most glad to hear that I just had a _vision_."

Leliana rubbed her temples, giving her head a short shake. When she looked up, her gaze was already sharp and focused, lingering curiously on the dress.

"From the Maker?"

"Ah, no. It was a rather a self-induced vision."

Her obligatory share of confusion spread, she lowered her gaze. "But… that is not what I came to tell you. It is more of a…favor I have to ask."

"Well then, my friend." Leliana spoke and barely hid a yawn with her hand. "What ails you at this hour?"

"Would you… lace this dress for me, please? I … think I have all but forgotten how to do it myself."

The truth behind her words was shameful and to admit to it shamed her even more, but she needed this to be done _now_. Needed to see for herself, _assure_ herself that the shreds of her past self were still there, that she could do this and not fail.

Leliana appeared taken off guard by the request, brought forward at such a time. A tiny frown carved itself into her forehead, but smoothed out, as the surprise in her eyes melted away and revealed something gentler, something deeply sympathetic in the dark of the stone-cold floor. Carefully, almost reverently carefully, she took the precious silk into her arms and laid one hand onto the younger woman's shoulder, a silent understanding passing between them.

"Of course. Do come in."

The door shut with barely a sound.

She regarded herself in the mirror, strangely naked in such a light, exquisite thing and studied the ornate embroideries with a quiet longing. The dress was beautiful, even though she was not.

It would have to be enough to fool herself.

Tomorrow she would stand before Ferelden's nobility and she would make a choice, knowing full well what it cost her, yet for once willing to pay. She would disappoint a lot of people sorely when she declared herself to be betrothed to the new king. People like Wynne who thought that she had finally accepted her place bound to a higher call, people like Eamon who took the would-be king as easy prey for their influence. But, just as she had failed to see, she would make sure that _they_ failed to recognize that it would be a calling with a timely limit. It was the cleanest, simplest of sacrifices imaginable, yet she doubted that any other noble had thought of it before her. Obvious to anyone else, alien, unimaginable to them.

If they were to live, she _would_ be there to fulfill her duty to Ferelden and she _would_ throw in her heritage a thousand times, if needed, to stabilize and salvage what had been destroyed during the Blight. She would not abandon them out of honor, not waste what was given to her. Tomorrow, Ferelden _would_ be presented its future Queen-consort, a bard, a ranger, a noblewoman who had learnt when to intervene and when to retreat to the sidelines.

A woman who would remove herself silently and inconspicuously, when she became a burden. It did not take more than for her to disappear, in battle, during journey, perhaps even in the Deep Roads, when the need for an heir was not to be delayed any longer. When that day came, she would return to her _other_ duty. He would mourn her, and it was heartless to make him do so full willingly, but he would understand if she told him it was a… calling. Wardens recruited during the Blight never lived terribly long and her body was not that of a great warrior. He would take it for the truth.

It would be the heaviest weight on her heart, but the simplest solution for Ferelden.

In the gleaming light of the moon she watched the glittering reflection of silver threads dying in shadow and it was neither a dutiful Grey Warden nor a flighty noblewoman she beheld.

It was a compromise. Imperfect and bound to sacrifice.

She would take it.

Because tomorrow all of Ferelden would stand with her.

It was only fair that she should step down for them.

.

..

...

* * *

><p><em>AN: There you have it. A great bunch of useless rambling, but I needed to get it out of my head. Look up the name Ceridwen and be stunned by my amazing creativity when naming a bard character, haha._ _I enjoy the Couslands and I'm a bit annoyed when people tell me how boring that origin is, because it's a human origin. Well, yes, but then again, the entire planet we're living on is populated by humans._ _We're not that much of uninteresting creatures.__ Also I dislike the stereotype of elves as the ultimate rangers - who invented the bow?- and Dragon Age somehow made me convert from swords to bows_ _in any game I play nowadays.__ That aside, Alistair is hardened in my playthroughs and when I asked him, he told me to make him king, so no begging to choose Anora in my writing. I don't see how she's all that great a Queen and administrate, when there is a bloody uprising of city elves mentioned in her epilogue that you don't get when he is elected king - he being the one with less experience. I also believe that people's personalities evolve based on the people around them, so while he might've opened up to the idea of being king with a decidedly politically oriented Cousland Warden, he would've become an entirely different person with another Warden.  
><em>

_ And, even though it probably didn't come across, my Cousland was a generally overconfident, 'bow-to-my-might', overanalyzing, sarcastic , posh and prejudiced woman who did care a great deal for others, when the chips were down. She amused me greatly and I would love to write little drabbles about her utter failures, but I have little time and I'm pretty sure no one cares.  
><em>

_I apologize if I had the characters mentioned out of character, and I apologize if there are drastic mistakes in my writing- I'm no native speaker. __I also, also, also apologize that there was no amazing frizzing sexual tension. I'm not that good at that sort of thing, it was a tense situation, and you're free to imagine he wanted to screw her like a rabbit the entire time, if you so please._ _And I'm aware that_ _probably nobody even read this story, so thank you ever so much, if you in fact endured my writing. I'd be eternally grateful for any sort of feedback._

_And as an afternote - why has nobody ever written something about Soris and his human wife? Nobody cares, you say? I do, I do! *flails*_

_-Meduse  
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